William Morris

In Arthur's House - Poem by William Morris

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In Arthur's house whileome was IWhen happily the time went byIn midmost glory of his days.He held his court then in a placeWhereof ye shall not find the nameIn any story of his fame:Caerliel good sooth men called it not,Nor London Town, nor Camelot;Yet therein had we bliss enow.--Ah, far off was the overthrowOf all that Britain praised and loved;And though among us lightly movedA love that could but lead to death,Smooth-skinned he seemed, of rosy breath,A fear to sting a lady's lip,No ruin of goodly fellowship, No shame and death of all things good.

Forgive the old carle's babbling mood;As here I sit grey-haired and old,My life gone as a story told,Ye bid me tell a story too;And then the evil days and few, That yet were overlong for meRise up so clear I may not seeThe pictures of my minstrel lore.

Well hearken! on a day of yoreFrom prime of morn the court did rideAmidmost of the summertideTo search the dwellings of the deerUntil the heat of noon was near;Then slackening speed awhile they wentAdown a ragged thorn-bushed bentAt whose feet grew a tangled woodOf oak and holly nowise good:But therethrough with some pain indeedAnd rending of the ladies' weedThey won at last, and after foundA space of green-sward grown aroundBy oak and holly set full close;And in the midst of it aroseTwo goodly sycamores that madeA wide and little sun-pierced shadeAbout their high boles straight and green:A fount was new-born there-between,And running on as clear as glass,Flowed winding on amid the grassUntil the thick wood swallowed it.A place for happy folk to sitWhile the hot day grew hotter stillTill eve began to work his will.--So might those happy people thinkWho grudged to see the red sun sinkAnd end another day of blissAlthough no joy tomorn should miss --They laughed for joy as they drew nighThe shade and fount: but lo, therebyA man beside the fountain laidThe while his horse 'twixt sun and shadeCropped the sweet grass: but little careHad these of guile or giant's lair,And scarce a foot before the QueenRode Gawain o'er the daisied greenTo see what man his pleasure took;Who rose up in meanwhile and shookHis tangled hair aback, as oneWho e'en but now his sleep hath done.Rough-head and yellow-haired was heGreat-eyed, as folk have told to me,And big and stout enow of limb:As one who thinks no harm he smiled,And cried out: "Well met in the wild,Fair King and Queen; and ye withalSweet dames and damsels! Well befalThis day, whereon I see thee nigh,O Lancelot, before I die!And surely shall my heart rejoiceSir Gawain, when I hear thy voice!"

Then Lancelot laughed: "Thou knowest us thenFull well among a many men?"

"As quoth the lion to the mouse,"The man said; "in King Arthur's HouseMen are not names of men alone,But coffers rather of deeds done."

"Nay Dame," he said, "I am but young;A little have I lived and sungAnd seen thy face this happy noon."

The King said: "May we hearken soonSome merry tale of thee? for IAm skilled to know men low and highAnd deem thee neither churl nor fool."

Said he, "My fathers went to schoolWhere folk are taught a many things,But not by bliss: men called them kingsIn days when kings were near to seek;But as a long thread waxeth weak,So is it with our house; and nowI wend me home from oaken boughUnto a stead where roof and wallShall not have over far to fallWhen their last day comes."As he spakeHe reddened: "Nathless for their sake,Whom the world loved once, mock not meO King, if thence I bring to theeA morsel and a draught of wine,Though nothing king-like here thou dine."

Of some kind word King Arthur thought,But ere he spake the woodman caughtHis forest-nag and leapt thereon,And through the tangled brake was gone.Then leapt the King down, glad at heart,Thinking, This day shall not departWithout some voice from days that were;And lightly leapt down Guenevere,And man and maid lay presentlyNeath the bee-laden branches high,And sweet the scent of trodden grassAmid the blossoms' perfume was.

There long they lay, and little spake,As folk right loth the calm to break;Till lo upon the forest-breezeA noise of folk, and from the treesThey came: the first-seen forester,A grizzled carle in such-like gear,And then two maidens poorly cladThough each a silver chaplet hadAnd round her neck a golden chain:And last two varlets led a wainDrawn by white oxen well bedightWith oaken boughs and lilies white;Therein there lay a cask of wineAnd baskets piled with bread full fine,And flesh of hart and roe and hare;And in the midst upon a chairDone over with a cloth of goldThere sat a man exceeding oldWith long white locks: and clad was heNo other than his companySave that a golden crown he boreFull fairly fashioned as of yore,And with a sword was girt aboutSuch as few folk will see I doubt.Right great it was: the scabbard thinWas fashioned of a serpent's skin,In every scale a stone of worth;Of tooth of sea-lion of the northThe cross was, and the blood-boot stoneThat heals the hurt the blade hath doneHung down therefrom in silken purse:The ruddy kin of Niblung's curseO'er tresses of a sea-wife's hairWas wrapped about the handle fair;And last a marvellous sapphire stoneAmidst of the great pommel shone,A blue flame in the forest green.And Arthur deemed he ne'er had seenSo fair a sword: nay not when heThe wonder of the land-locked seaDrew from the stone that Christmas-tide.

Now forth the forest youth did ride,Leapt down beside the King, and spake:"King Arthur for thy greatness' sakeMy grandsire comes to look on thee;My father standeth here by me;These maidens are my sisters twain;My brethren draw out from the wainSomewhat thy woodland cheer to mend."

Thereat his sire the knee did bendBefore the King, who o'er the brownRough sleeve of the man's homespun gownBeheld a goodly golden ring:And fell to greater marvellingWhen he beheld how fine and fairThe woodman's kneeling sisters were.And all folk thereby deemed in soothThat (save indeed the first seen youth)These folk were nobler e'en than thoseOf Arthur's wonder of a house.

But now the elder drew anigh,By half a head was he more highThan Arthur or than Lancelot,Nor had eld bent him: he kneeled notBefore the King, but smiling tookHis hands in hands that nowise shook;And the King joyed as he who seesOne of his fathers' imagesStand glad before him in a dream.

Then down beside the bubbling streamThey sat together, and the KingWas loth to fall a questioning;So first the elder spake and said:

"It joys me of thy goodliheadO great king of our land; and thoughOur blood within thee doth not flow,And I who was a king of yoreMay scarcely kneel thy feet before,Yet do I deem thy right the bestOf all the kings who rule the West.I love thy name and fame: behold,King Arthur, I am grown so oldIn guilelessness, the Gods have sent,Be I content or uncontent,This gift unto my latter daysThat I may see as through a hazeThe lives and deeds of days to come:I laugh for some, I weep for some --I neither laugh nor weep for thee,But trembling through the clouds I seeThy life and glory to the end;And how the sweet and bitter blendWithin the cup that thou must drink.Good is it that thou shalt not shrinkFrom either: that the afterdaysShall still win glory from thy praiseAnd scarce believe thee laid asleepWhen o'er thy deeds the days lie deep."

He ceased but his old lips moved still,As though they would the tale fulfilHis heart kept secret: Arthur's eyesGleamed with the pride that needs would riseUp from his heart, and low he said:"I know the living by the deadI know the future by the past."Wise eyes and kind the elder castUpon him; while a nameless fearSmote to the heart of Guenevere,And, fainting there, was turned to love:And thence a nameless pain did moveThe noble heart of Lancelot,The store of longing unforgot.-- And west a little moved the sunAnd noon began, and noon was done.

But as the elder's grey eyes turnedOn Guenevere's, her sweet face burnedWith sweet shame; as though she knewHe read her story through and through.Kindly he looked on her and said:"O Queen, the chief of goodlihead,Be blithe and glad this day at leastWhen in my fathers' house ye feast:For surely in their ancient hallYe sit now: look, there went the wallWhere yon turf ridge runs west-away:Time was I heard my grand-dame sayShe saw this stream run bubbling downThe hall-floor shut in trench of stone;Therein she washed her father's cupThat last eve e'er the fire went upO'er ridge and rafter and she passedBetwixt the foeman's spears the lastOf all the women, wrapping roundThis sword the gift of Odin's ground."

He shook the weapon o'er his knee,Thereon gazed Arthur eagerly."Draw it, my lord," quoth Guenevere,"Of such things have we little fearIn Arthur's house." And Lancelot roseTo look upon the treasure close.But grimly smiled the ancient man:"E'en as the sun arising wanIn the black sky when Heimdall's hornScreams out and the last day is born,This blade to eyes of men shall beOn that dread day I shall not see --"Fierce was his old face for a while:But once again he 'gan to smileAnd took the Queen's slim lily handAnd set it on the deadly brandThen laughed and said: "Hold this, O Queen,Thine hand is where God's hands have been,For this is Tyrfing: who knows whenHis blade was forged? Belike ere menHad dwelling on the middle-earth.At least a man's life is it worthTo draw it out once: so beholdThese peace-strings wrought of pearl and goldThe scabbard to the cross that bindLest a rash hand and heart made blindShould draw it forth unwittingly."

Blithe laughed King Arthur: "Sir," said he,"We well may deem in days by goneThis sword, the blade of such an oneAs thou hast been, would seldom slideBack to its sheath unsatisfied.Lo now how fair a feast thy kinHave dight for us and might we winSome tale of thee in Tyrfing's praise,Some deed he wrought in greener days,This were a blithesome hour indeed."

Then to their meat they gat and thereFeasted amid the woodland fairThe fairest folk of all the land.Ah me when first the Queen's fair handDrew near the kneeling forest youthNew-wrought the whole world seemed in soothAnd nothing left therein of ill.So at the last the Queen did fillA cup of wine, and drank and said:"In memory of thy fathers deadI drink, fair lord, drink now with meAnd then bethink thee presentlyOf deeds that once won prize and praiseThe glory of thy fathers' days."He drank and laughed and said," Nay, nay,Keep we the peace-strings whole today.This draught from where thy lips have beenWithin mine old heart maketh greenThe memory of a love full true,The first recorded deed that drewMy fathers' house from dark to light.

If thus my grandame told aright,A rougher place our land was then,Quoth she, than with us living men,And other trees were in the woodAnd folk of somewhat other bloodThan ours: then were the small-eyed bearsMore plenty in the woodland lairsThan badgers now: no holidayIt was to chase the wolves away,Yea there were folk who had to tellOf lyngworms lying on the fell,And fearful things by lake and fen,And manlike shapes that were not men.Then fay-folk roamed the woods at noon,And on the grave-mound in the moonFaint gleamed the flickering treasure-flame.Days of the world that won no fame,Yet now, quoth she, folk looking backAcross the tumult and the wrackAnd swelling up of windy liesAnd dull fool-fashioned cruelties,Deem that in those days God abodeOn earth and shared ill times and goodAnd right and wrong with that same folkTheir hands had fashioned for the yoke.Quoth she, of such nought tells my tale,Yet saith that such as should prevailIn those days o'er the fears of earthMust needs have been some deal of worth,And saith that had ye seen a kinWho dwelt these very woods withinThem at the least ye would have toldFor cousins of the Gods of old.Amongst all these it tells of one,The goodman's last-begotten son,Some twenty summers old: as fairAs any flower that blossomed thereIn sun and rain, and strong therewithAnd lissom as a willow withe.Now through these woods amidst of JuneThis youngling went until at noonFrom out of the thicket his fair facePeered forth upon this very place;For he had been a-hunting nighAnd wearied thought a while to lieBeside the freshness of the stream.But lo as in a morning dreamThe place was changed, for there was dightA fair pavilion blue and whiteE'en where we play, and all aroundWas talk of men and diverse sound,Tinkling of bit and neigh of steedClashing of arms and iron weed.For round about the painted tentArmed folk a many came or went,Or on the fresh grass lay about.Surely our youth at first had doubtIf 'twere not better to be goneThan meet these stranger folk alone --But wot ye well such things as theseWere new to him born mid the treesAnd wild things: and he thought, MaybeThe household of the Gods I see:Who for as many tales as IHave heard of them, I ne'er saw nigh.If they be men, I wotted notThat such fair raiment men had got;They will be glad to show them then.

For one thing taught these woodland menWhatever wisdom they let fallMen since have won Fear nought at all.

So from the holly brake he strodeShouldering the while his hunter's load,A new slain roe; but there aroseTo meet him half a score of thoseWhom in fair words he greeted well.

Now was he clad in a sheep's fell And at his back his quiver hung,His woodknife on his thigh: unstrungHis bow he held in a staff's stead.An oaken wreath was round his headFrom whence his crispy locks of brownWell nigh unto his belt hung down,And howso frank his eyes might beA half-frown soothly might you seeAs these men handled sword or spearAnd cried out, "Hold, what dost thou here?""Ah," said he, "then no Gods ye are.Fear not, I shall not make you war."Therewith his hunting-knife he drewAnd the long blade before them he threw.Then loud they laughed; one sheathed his sword:"Thanks, army-leader, for that word!We are not Gods e'en as thou say'st,Nor thou a devil of the wasteBut e'en a devil's a friend belike."Something [of] hate hereat did strikeUnto the woodsman's unused heart,Yet he spake softly for his part:"What men are ye and where dwell ye?What is the wondrous house I see?""In the fair southland is our homeYet from the north as now we come,"Said one: then with a mocking smile,"And in our house there dwells awhileA very Goddess of the north.But lo you, take a thing of worthFor that thy quarry, and begone."

But as he spake another oneSpake softly in his ear: and soThe word from this to that did go,With laughing that seemed nowise goodUnto the dweller of the wood,Who saying nought moved toward the tent.But they came round him as he wentAnd said: "Nay, pagan, stay thy feet;Thou art not one our dame to greet